


When That Great King Returns to Clay

by TheWaffleBat



Series: Home From All The Ports [1]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Dad!Herodotus, Father-Daughter Relationship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Mostly hurt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-18
Updated: 2019-04-18
Packaged: 2020-01-13 08:09:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18464941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWaffleBat/pseuds/TheWaffleBat
Summary: “Are you alright, Herodotus?” Asked Kassandra, and she knew it was several beats too late but Herodotus didn’t seem to notice, looked instead to his hands loosely knotted together in his lap. Her sword sang, each pass of the whetstone calming her heart just as the slow beat of Poseidon’s storm calmed it, the thunder echoing in her chest. “You and Perikles seemed… close.”Perikles was a good friend of Herodotus'. Kassandra can't make his loss easier, but at least she's there for him.





	When That Great King Returns to Clay

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken, and very slightly modified, from Rudyard Kipling's _The Burial_
> 
> Written for the prompt from Perikles; _I have a request, if that's alright? So in the game they make it pretty obvious that Perikles and Herodotus are really good friends. Best friends, even. The game makes this obvious with how they talk, how they greet each other, how they respect each other, but we don't see his reaction after Perikles dies. I feel like... he would've been pretty sad after losing his BEST FRIEND. But AC took that away from us. Could we maybe get a hurt/comfort fic where Kassandra helps him deal with the loss?_

The Adrestia docked on the way to Naxos, some tiny island Kassandra didn’t bother to remember the name of; remarkable only in that it was an overnight stay, because there was a storm heavy and dark overhead and none of the crew were willing to brave it. Kassandra paced the deck, not willing to go below and sleep and not willing to simply stand and stare, either; thought about ordering the crew to damn Poseidon’s wrath rumbling thunderously in the sky and sail on through the dark, turned from it with a grimace because she didn’t want her crew to fear her wrath as they did Poseidon’s.

Phoibe. Dearest Phoibe, the little chick Kassandra had taken on because she remembered so bitterly her own years on Kephallonia’s streets, Markos beloved but useless in keeping her safe. A tiny little thing against the world, with only Kassandra at her back to keep her safe and Kassandra had _failed her_ -

No; Kassandra turned on her heel from the thought and strode to the dock, stalked to the cliffs rising high and cold because she needed the climb. No, she wouldn’t think about that, dearest Phoibe cold and dead on marble-tiled floor because she’d had the bad luck to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, bodies in the street an annoyance instead of a tragedy because they got in Kassandra’s way, reaching out with clawed, dead-cold hands, holding fast to her legs and dragging her down with them just as the misery heavy and aching in her heart dragged her down, made her-

 _No_. Kassandra would not think of that! She had little enough sanity left without adding… _that_ to it. She climbed the hill, forcing her way through grass and shrubs and loving them scratching up her legs, the stinging itch a balm to the ragged edges of her soul because the pain, the burn in her legs as she climbed, was a better pain than what sat heavy in her head, red as Phoibe’s blood still staining her palms long after she’d washed them.

She wasn’t surprised to see Herodotus, sat with his legs dangling over the cliff edge, head bowed to the heavy storm clouds. He was equally unsurprised when he looked up and saw her, only offered a smile and patted the space beside him, sheltered by a tree clinging stubbornly against the wind blowing in from the sea, coldly furious as it pulled at Herodotus’ hood. Kassandra sat with him, close and shuffling closer still because she wanted him warm along her side, bowing her head with him to Poseidon’s fury black and low and flashing bright with lightning ahead of them.

“How are you, Kassandra?” Asked Herodotus, watching her from the corners of his eyes.

Kassandra shrugged, unsheathed her sword and started sharpening it. “Well enough, I suppose,” She said.

Herodotus nodded, looked away while Kassandra’s sword rang with the whetstone running across its edge, again and again as she tried to fall into the rhythm of it; something easing in her chest because this way she could make sure she never failed again, could save would be able to save Herodotus and Barnabas and everyone on the Adrestia, if she needed to. If her blades were _sharp_ \- the iron sang, it’s rhythm Ikaros’ mourning eagle-song for the little girl who snuck him treats when Kassandra wasn’t looking - then she could kill faster, and killing faster meant there was no one left alive to ever hurt the people she loved.

She cut her thumb on the edge of the sword, hissed at the sharp sting of it, but Kassandra didn’t stop; couldn’t. Her blades needed to be sharp; what was a little blood to that? Better her own blood, or the blood of the Cult, than the blood in Herodotus’ veins, in Barnabas’, splashed across the floor from a throat slit open.

“Are _you_ alright, Herodotus?” Asked Kassandra, and she knew it was several beats too late but Herodotus didn’t seem to notice, looked instead to his hands loosely knotted together in his lap. Her sword sang, each pass of the whetstone calming her heart just as the slow beat of Poseidon’s storm calmed it, the thunder echoing in her chest. “You and Perikles seemed… close.”

Herodotus huffed a laugh, sad and short. “Oh, we were close,” He agreed. “I have… I knew him for years. Such a brilliant man. More brilliant than Kleon will ever be, you know." He tipped his head back, smiled miserably at the black clouds. "Years we'd been friends, years we'd kept Athens safe and fed together, doing the best for the people that turned on him, in the end." He sighed, long and sharp as Kassandra's blade gleaming in the cold light. "He should not have died, not when it's Kleon's ambition that will fill the spaces he leaves behind." Herodotus shook his head, a snarl on his lips. "Fool man!” Herodotus spat, suddenly fierce. “Kleon will ruin all of Athens before he is done!”

“Perikles was certainly the better man,” Kassandra agreed, frowning at Herodotus. He wasn’t meant to be fierce, scowling at his lap like his will alone could cut Kleon to the bone if he only tried. “Clever of him to avoid battle with Sparta, and defend instead. Athens faced fewer losses than it would otherwise. Or will, with Kleon at the helm.” The whetstone sang across the blade edge again. “Would it help you to know that I will kill Kleon soon? He’s too... greasy to be a man who will truly do the best for the people, and there’s something about him I don’t trust.”

Herodotus smiled, a laugh glittering in his eyes. “That you would throw all of Athenian politics into uproar for the sake of my dear Perikles? Oh yes, my friend,” The smiled died slowly, and he hung his head with a sharp sigh, noticed himself twiddling his fingers and pressing them flat to his knees with an annoyed huff. Looked to Kassandra again. “How did he die? Perikles?”

The storm gathered even more, black and heavy; the sea-wind cold against unguarded hands and faces. Thunder boomed again, rain sweeping in but not yet falling from overhead, not quite. Kassandra sheathed the sword and turned instead to sharpening Leonidas’ spear, the rhythm changing a little because she didn’t need to be soothed by its song anymore. Shook her head and took a breath against the ache tight around her heart, heavy in her chest, because Herodotus needed her; she could forget her own grief to help Herodotus with his.

“His throat was cut,” Said Kassandra. “A single clean slice. The blood loss had him unconscious quickly, he was not aware of when he died. He felt nothing - no pain, or fear - as he… He felt nothing. It was a quick end, and a merciful one.”

“And there was nothing you could do?”

“No.”

"And... And it _was_ quick, yes?" Asked Herodotus, low and urgent. "Please, Kassandra. Please, don't lie to spare my feelings. I would rather-" He shuddered, closing his eyes and letting his head hang low between his shoulders. "Please, Kassandra," He murmured. "I must know."

Kassandra watched him a moment, studied the hood fallen across his face. She took his hand, rubbed her thumb across his palm and let it go, squaring her shoulders. "It was quick, Herodotus. Deimos killed him the way I kill - quick and clean."

Herodotus swallowed thickly, let out a sigh and bowed his head to the sea and the storm and Poseidon’s wrath turning the water churning against the cliffs far below to foam, white with fury. The sky shuddered, Zeus loosing his lightning until it flashed white across the clouds. The whetstone screamed across Leonidas' blade, and Kassandra set them aside, turned to watch Herodotus while he shuddered again, and nodded to himself. “Thank you, dear Kassandra,” He said.

**Author's Note:**

> EDIT; I am a colossal fucking idiot, and didn't put a title in.
> 
> Why is it I always make Herodotus sad and hurt whenever I write him? Also, should I push this back so the series runs in chronological order or is it fine where it is?


End file.
